


The Seven Stages of Fighting

by micehell



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-19
Updated: 2008-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But then the high road had never been one of his favored routes, and watching Duncan get excited about things was always good, so Methos just shook his head.  "Tempting… but no."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Stages of Fighting

The fight had been silly and foolish -- and completely Duncan's fault -- but Methos had moved past all that about five seconds after it had started. Not that he'd told Duncan that, of course. It was far too amusing to watch Duncan move through The Seven Stages of Fighting all on his own.

_Disbelief_

"It's just one night, Methos. And it's for a charity that I sponsor. Surely you can take time out of your busy schedule of lounging and drinking my beer to go to one measly little Charity Fair with me."

Methos considered taking the high road -- and ignoring the jibe at his usual habits -- because, really, Duncan did do a lot of things for him, and it wouldn't exactly be that big a hardship to spend a night at the fair. But then the high road had never been one of his favored routes, and watching Duncan get excited about things was always good, so Methos just shook his head. "Tempting… but no."

_Irritation_

"You really are the most irritating person alive. And I include Amanda, Joe, and Geraldo Rivera on that list, that's how irritating you are."

On the outside, Methos put on his patently-false wounded look, and said, "I'm sorry you think so, McLeod. It always distresses me so when we argue." On the inside, he was singing _We Are the Champions_ , with his metaphorical arms raised in victory. He couldn't wait to tell Amanda he had won.

_Anger_

Methos had liked the fight at first. Even under the best of circumstances, Duncan and logic were only vaguely acquainted, making his arguments a very good spectator sport. And then there was the added attraction of how flushed he became when he was irritated, very akin to the way he looked when aroused. It was definitely a good look for the man -- not that there were many looks that weren't -- but Methos tended to forget, what with the amusement and the flushing and all, that once Duncan moved past irritation to anger, he had the tendency to aim deep and true.

"What, is a trip to the Big Top beneath you? Don't like spending time in a tent if you can't hear the screams of your victims from all around?"

_Sulking_

But as bad as the anger could be, it beat the next stage all to hell. In 5000 years, Methos had never met anyone who could sulk with the degree of skill the Highlander did. He sometimes wondered if there was some kind of causal connection between heather and stunted childhood development, and resolved to never visit the Highlands in the springtime. There was only so much pouting one man can take, after all.

And it hadn't even ended when he'd agreed to go to the fair. It really was quite… unfair, he thought, smirking at his pun.

As it was, all of Duncan's angst was perfectly unnecessary anyway. It wasn't like there was absolutely no validity to what Duncan had implied, and saying something you regretted when angry was pretty much a universal phenomenon, no heather needed. And Methos _had_ been deliberately pushing him. He knew he really should say something to set Duncan at ease, especially before that lip stuck out any further and tripped someone.

But while Methos _knew_ what he should do, an evening at the fair was all about simple pleasures, and what could be simpler than driving the other man insane? And if Duncan happened to learn a lesson about thinking before he spoke, well, then, that was just an added advantage.

In a forced attempt at their normal banter, Duncan had stopped in front of a corndog vendor, giving an exaggerated waggle of his brows. "So how about something big and juicy to put between your lips?"

Methos shrugged, and replied in a voice that carried quite clearly to Duncan, the vendor, the other people in line, and quite a few people beyond that, "Well, since it's the biggest thing I'm likely to have in my mouth tonight, I might as well."

_Wheedling_

Never one to give up easily, Duncan's next attempt was a bag of cotton candy. "Sweets for my sweet."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Treacle from my tootsie. How romantic. If you expect me to put out for a bag of spun sugar, you're sadly mistaken."

Methos came out the worse in the contest that ensued, winding up with cotton candy in his hair and on his face, and he had to admit that the bright pink bit of fluff on the end of his nose might have ruined the effect when he raised one eyebrow haughtily and said, "I know I call you child sometimes, but must you prove me right so often?"

_Desperation_

Next it was carnival games and a stuffed dog offered with all the weight of an engagement ring, wedded with the most charming of smiles. Probably only someone that knew Duncan would recognize the somewhat manic edge of desperation lying underneath.

Methos almost broke then. He'd never been immune to the charm, and it had been centuries since someone had offered tribute with such grace, edge of desperation or no. But he was made of sterner stuff than that.

Unlike the dog, whose flimsy construction was almost hidden by _monumentally_ blue fur, sheened in layers of grease from the fake buttery popcorn and the miles of suspect kielbasa that were being sold all around. Methos had the momentary urge to try to count the layers, like tree rings, and trace the history of the poor beast, suspecting that they might be of an age, but he was too distracted by the vivid red bow tie it wore and the chartreuse felt tongue that seemed to expressing its own dismay at its appearance.

It was strangely endearing, really, but Methos held it between two cautious fingers, making sure none of its unintentional hair product got on his new -- Duncan's -- sweater, and smiled. "It looks like you. And I will love it, and I will squeeze it, and I will name it Duncan. Maybe it won't fall asleep on me right after it comes."

"Damn it, Methos, it was only the one time!"

_Sex_

Methos thought he might have pushed things just a little too far when Duncan dragged him into an empty tent. But it was lips that smashed against his, not a fist, and the hands that pulled at his clothes didn't seem to have a martial bent, forceful as they were. And it was probably a mistake on Duncan's part to reward Methos' bad behavior this way, but Methos' mouth was far too engaged to point that out.

The tent was dark and close, and the sound of their breathing seemed both loud and muted, both familiar and strange. But there were a lot of things here that were a mix of terra firma and the deep unknown.

He'd done this before, more times than he could count. Tasted desire and male on his tongue, licking behind his teeth, pushing down his throat. But it had never been tinged with cotton candy before.

He'd smelled sex and straw and dung as a body moved over him, in him, musk and sweat sinking into his senses as surely as the cock sunk into his body. But he'd never smelled it mixed with popcorn and corndogs.

He'd heard screams and moans, only half-muted by canvas, as he'd been fucked hard, as he'd reveled in it, until the screams faded away beneath the slap of flesh, against the grunt of exertion filling his ear. But the screams had never been mixed with glee and laughter, mixed in with shouts of "Faster, faster," and the whirl and whoosh of machines that had been made with only amusement in mind.

"Faster, faster," he whispered, pleasure and pain coursing through him in waves of hot and cold, like a fever that expanded and contracted his skin until it felt like it, too, was alien, belonging more to the hands that held him, the wet tongue that traced arcane sigils around his ear, across one hard nipple, than it did to him. It was a strange magic, to this setting, to this place, but familiar to Methos all the same.

He lay there afterward, sure that there was dirt and straw in his hair, and probably a few more things he didn't want to think about, but not really minding. Not until the afterglow faded, anyway.

Duncan was all smiles in the dim light, all his pique apparently washed away in orgasm. His accent expanding with his smirk, he plucked a piece of straw from Methos' hair and said, "Even when you're angry you can't resist a little roll in the hay with me."

Methos rolled his eyes at the bad pun, conveniently forgetting the one he'd made earlier -- especially since he'd at least had the good sense to keep it quiet -- and felt no compunction at all against smacking Duncan with a handy clod of something that might even have been dirt.

_Disbelief_

"What the fuck, Methos, you got shit in my hair."

/story


End file.
